Respect
by Morninglight
Summary: From Tales of the Aurelii. Isran had escaped his bitter past as the former Grand Master of the Blades during their fall to command the Dawnguard. But one meeting with the daughter he never wanted shatters his life. But at least Lia respects him even if everything in her life has been handed to her on a platter.


Note: Welp, Sigdrifa got her point of view, so now it's Rustem/Isran's turn. Remember, in this 'verse, the Great War only happened 25 or so years ago and most NPCs over the age of thirty-five are ten years younger. This chapter is set closer to the end of the storyline, when they're getting ready to confront one of the two great threats. Trigger warning: implied child abuse/neglect, patricide, references/callouts to a couple fanfics of mine and crappy human beings. The Blades of the generations following Northstar and her son were Thalmor by another name. Years of clandestine war and losing the Dragonborn Emperors made them lose their way. My excuse for different narratives is 'unreliable narrator'. ;)

I've paraphrased Chamerion's comment on Chapter 7 of Hunne (at AO3) in story. It was such a neat description of the differences between Isran/Rustem and Irkand.

…

Cloud Ruler Temple, 4E 162-183

Rustem was ten when his mother died. Now that Irkand was five and ready to begin training as the future Second or Third Blade, Farah of the Forebears was no longer needed. Arius Aurelius, trying to give his son the ruthlessness he lacked, made him watch as her throat was slit. The boy didn't vomit; his father did.

He had to be the fastest, strongest and best warrior out of all the initiates. Failure brought loss of privileges and a walk through the graveyard where the culled Blades were buried. The other child-initiates hated him, but he was the descendant of the Hero of Kvatch and would be Grand Master one day. Irkand, even young, was more than capable of dealing with any threats.

Successes brought him favour and time spent with Arius. Irkand saw little of their father, having been trained to have little attachment to anything but the order and obeying the Grand Master, but Rustem lived in the Septim Wing of the Temple. Arius made it clear that the legacy of his ancestors was his to hold – the very fate of the world could lie in his hands.

Rustem grew strong and tall, looking more Ra Gada than the bland Irkand, and accepted the accolades of those who followed him. It was his due, after all. He travelled on missions and even pleasure trips, something usually denied other Blades. Irkand was celibate; Arius didn't want him distracted.

When he was twenty-five, he spoke to the ugliest Nord girl he'd ever met in the marketplace of Bravil on a bet from Rikke, a young Legionnaire. When he returned, his father congratulated him on his betrothal to Sigdrifa Stormsword, Shieldmaiden of Talos and daughter of a disgustingly wealthy Orc chieftain named Durak. It would be the first time Rustem vomited in his father's presence.

If he went to bed with his bride sober, it was because someone had hidden the wine. A year later he was a father. Sigdrifa wanted to kill the babe for being weak. Rustem wanted it dead because it had the Norc's eyes. But Ri'Myrrh, Dibella's Blade, took it under her wing and ordered her family to protect the child. And Arius doted on the child for doing nothing more than look at him with big eyes when Rustem had to kill and beg for every scrap of his father's approval.

Two years later, he had the numbers to see his father culled. Irkand, of course, arranged the accident… and then used Fury to make certain it was Rustem's hand that did the deed. Until then, his brother had been a tool. Now Rustem realised that Irkand's lack of attachment to anything meant he would cheerfully cull anything that was a threat to the Blades. The new Grand Master made it a point to keep his brother far, far away from Cloud Ruler whenever possible.

At least he had the Breton Delphine. With her, he could be just Rustem, not Rustem Aurelius the fucking Saviour of the Blades. He favoured the woman's company openly and enjoyed the look of desolate betrayal in Sigdrifa's eyes. He was Grand Master. He could do whatever he wanted. Except kill his wife because they needed the metals from her kin.

The Great War was brutal but distant. As a precaution, Rustem had the Altmer Blades stripped of their katana and even executed when he could. Only Marius was spared, mostly because Swan-Neck demanded it. Rustem had no time for the Aurelii – not like Irkand, who was oddly loyal to the clan – but he needed their resources. The elf repaid his mercy by fucking his wife.

When it was over, Rustem convened his first major Council meeting, looking over the gathered Blades. Sigdrifa, First Blade; Delphine, his Second; Irkand Third as the executioner; Esbern, the only remaining follower of his father, and the fucking cat Dar'saad were Fourth and Fifth. The first order of business, insisted on by Sigdrifa, was to cull their daughter. He agreed when she offered to kill the brat, because it meant he could cut her down like a mad dog. Who could handle killing their own daughter?

Then the Thalmor came. Rustem didn't even bother fighting; in the chaos he saw his chance to flee everything. Delphine wouldn't come with him, being more concerned about Esbern, so he left alone.

He was no longer Rustem Aurelius and the Blades were finally dead. He was free.

…

4E184-202

The Thalmor hunted him from one end of Cyrodiil to the other, so he fled to Hammerfell, using his mother's name to buy a place in an Alik'r unit. It seemed she'd been a woman of some note amongst them. He told them that she'd died suddenly when he was ten. It worked.

Then wind brought word of Irkand's arrival in Hammerfell. Knowing his brother would kill him for failing the Blades, Rustem fled the Alik'r, crossing into High Rock. There he found a cause worth fighting for: killing evil things. He joined the Vigil of Stendarr under the command of a solid Breton named Celann and served for a time until he realised they were pansies. So he went to Skyrim, a land known for its harshness, and began using the might of Stendarr more forcefully. Keeper Carcette kicked him out.

So Isran built his own order. He didn't receive the accolades he had with the Blades, but it was something he'd made himself, and the Dawnguard respected him if nothing else. He now had respect, autonomy and a worthy enemy. If Delphine was with him, it would have been perfect, except she had no desire to abandon the vendetta of the Blades.

His life was good. Even Durak, Sigdrifa's father, had come begging to let him fighting vampires. Isran had found his place, his purpose, in life.

Then the dragons returned; Alduin sailed over Fort Dawnguard and destroyed Helgen. Arius was right. Isran ignored questions on whether they should do anything about it. If he revealed that he knew about the Prophecy of the Dragonborn, questions would arise that would lead to his identity as a former Blade being discovered.

Things settled down; rumours of the Dragonborn being a Jarl filtered down, followed by a slaughter in Solitude. The Stormcloaks and Imperials fell into an uneasy truce and the vampires got bolder. Isran put out word for old allies. No one he could call friend. The son of the Grand Master had no friends, only tools and allies and enemies. Even Durak was only a useful subordinate.

Then _she_ came, eyes glowing with taint, begging for a cure. The life he'd built for himself unravelled when he lost his temper and tried to kill the abomination. Much to his anger and humiliation, Durak and Celann took the vampire's side. The brat who'd had nothing beyond a pair of big eyes and the willingness to do anything to survive turned out to be a Nord, using the Battle Cry on him after she'd taunted him into attacking.

She left with Celann… and returned mortal. Gunmar and Sorine, Celann and Durak, listened to her tale of breaking into Molag Bal's Soul Cairn and breaking it somehow. Isran was forced to admit it was a decent explanation for why the soul gems of the mages had cracked. She called herself Grand Master of the Blades, had dragged poor Ulfric into the restored order after Solitude and was apparently fucking the Dragonborn…

For the first time in his life, Isran was forced to take a long hard look at himself. What he saw inside was a petty fool who made excuses for his own failures and blamed others for his sins. He'd refused to take responsibility for his own actions – perhaps that's why Irkand had made him kill their father, because his brother _owned_ his actions, right or wrong. When the _Listener of the Dark Brotherhood_ was a better person than you, you knew you were a terrible excuse for a human being.

Isran left Fort Dawnguard for the first time in over a decade, travelling to Riften. He wasn't sure why he'd left, only that he couldn't bear the reproachful looks in his subordinates' eyes. He'd gone from a harsh warrior who did what he had to in order to purge vampires to the coward who'd fled Cloud Ruler. They hadn't kicked him out because he was still the most experienced vampire fighter, but it was mostly Gunmar and Sorine handing out missions – some of them even to Lia, Durak and Celann, who were chasing after some ancient prophecy. They were even talking about merging the Dawnguard with the Blades once Harkon and Alduin were dead. _That _was a kick in the guts.

It was in Riften that they had… quite the family reunion. Forces were gathering to face Alduin or Harkon – the Dragonborn was vague on the details – but Lia had made time to visit the grandson Isran didn't even know he had, a boy who reeked of Nocturnal's influence. It seemed that his daughter was quite carte blanche about dealing with the Daedric Princes.

He didn't approach them. Not until the boy was gone. Isran was honest enough to admit that the scars of the past had shaped him and no boy, not even one serving the Daedric Prince of shadows, night and thieves, should be exposed to the shit he'd endured.

It was the Dunmer female who accompanied the Dragonborn, some rangy bastard in a rough homespun robe over heavy steel plate, who spotted him first. Her eyes, hair and war-paint glowed a banked orange-red like sunset or lava; the 'blessings' of Oblivion were thick upon her grey flesh. "Who are you?" she challenged.

"Isran," he replied. The quiet chatter between Lia and her people halted as his daughter threw a glance in his direction.

"Yes?" she asked flatly. "Before you say anything, Esbern knows where you are."

The ancient Loremaster had survived. Well, wasn't that a surprise.

"Ah, brother." Irkand's mocking voice was still the same oil over silk. "Come to make another attempt on your daughter's life?"

"Hey, we're in the Ragged Flagon. You know the Guild gets pissed if we start trouble here," Lia pointed out.

"I'm not here to make trouble. I've been… forced to do some hard thinking."

"No wonder it took you so long then," Irkand drawled. Some big dark-haired Nord with a Skyforge Steel broadsword snickered.

"I usually get that joke. Kinda funny when someone else gets it."

"Look, for all that's… happened… he was the first to combat the vampire threat," Lia observed quietly. "Isran's a good enough fighter that he could have easily taken at least two of us out before we could respond, if he was here to cause trouble."

"I treat you like shit and you'll speak to me?" Isran asked the woman in astonishment.

"I think you're an unmitigated cunt of the highest degree," she responded icily. "But that puts you about ten steps ahead of Mother. She sold her soul to Molag Bal to kill me."

"It was the beans, wasn't it? People always want to kill me when I eat too much beans," the Nord male with the broadsword said with a grin.

"Farkas, that's because you could power a Steam Centurion with your farts," the Dragonborn told him laughingly.

"Welcome to the cosy little family where serious conversations devolve into fart jokes," Lia observed dryly. "The rangy blond guy in the plate is Balgruuf the Dragonborn. The Dunmer lady is Irileth, Daedric Prince of the Dumner, bloody cunning, necessary deception and fire. The big Nord with the wind problem is Farkas, Harbinger of the Companions and Agent of Kyne."

She gestured to him. "This is Isran, commander of the Dawnguard, once Rustem Aurelius, Grand Master of the Blades."

The Dragonborn's eyes slitted, burning gold, and he began to actually growl. If 'growl' was a word that could be applied to the rumble of the Thu'um.

"Oi! No Thu'umin' back there!" bellowed a thug.

"What Thu'um? Farkas is farting again!" Lia retorted cheerfully.

"Dammit, Lia, I didn't come down in the last shower."

"Do you really want us to answer that question, Dirge?" a child with glowing gold eyes asked mockingly.

"Vampire!" Isran went for the crossbow he always held, only to find an ebony blade pressed against his throat from behind.

"Arsehole," the woman murmured, her voice sex and honey and sin. "But we haven't killed you… yet."

"Rustem, meet my wife Astrid. Astrid, meet my brother Rustem," Irkand introduced blandly.

"Sold your soul to get a wife, huh?" Isran asked bitterly. His brother was a fucking murderer who channelled the words of an undead corpse.

"If it's a choice between the Void and Astrid or Aetherius and you, I'll take my wife," Irkand countered with the tender mocking smile that so many feared.

"Eight and One, quit it," Lia said wearily. "He's come to talk. But if it's an apology, have Dirge kick him out. I don't want to hear it."

Isran removed the dagger from his throat with his hand, stepping away from Irkand's murderous bride. "I don't understand you," he admitted bitterly. "I voted to have you killed because I hated your mother… And Father adored you. You looked at people with those big eyes and they gave you things. You were a fucking whore. _Why_ are _you_ more respected, more honoured than I?"

"I'd say it's because she's a lot prettier than you," Farkas told him with a smirk.

"Shoulda seen me before the shipwreck," Lia joked dryly.

"That woulda been awkward. Bein' I was a werewolf, I'd have probably started humpin' your leg."

"Whatever floats your boat, big guy. But I'm taken."

"What if Alduin eats Balgruuf?"

"Piss off," the Dragonborn retorted mildly.

"Will you answer my question?" Isran demanded. He was willing to admit he'd made a lot of mistakes, but he just wanted to know _why_ Lia had all these friends and followers.

Lia regarded him with a mixture of pity and contempt. "Make a friend or two instead of having subordinates and you'll understand," she suggested softly. "I'm not universally beloved. I have at least two factions sponsored by Molag Bal after my arse. _If _I survive Alduin _and_ Harkon, I will have to prepare for the battle against the Thalmor and try to hold the line until Martin comes of age."

"Comes of age?"

"If you'd come a little sooner, you would have met my son, whose heir to a significant amount of land in Cyrodiil," she answered dryly.

"I saw him, tainted by Nocturnal's influence."

Lia glanced to the Thieves' Guild members in the Ragged Flagon. "Watch your tongue in here. Several people here honour Nocturnal… and she's… I guess you could call it a 'Good Daedra' in the Dunmer sense. I'm not… impressed with the bargain Martin made. But he made it for himself and while I wouldn't trust the Nightingales with my coin or goods-"

"Lass, we updated the shadowmarks on Honeyside," a redhead in articulated leather armour of deepest black protested. "Your coin and goods are perfectly safe from us."

"Only because I pay my dues, Brynjolf," Lia pointed out dryly.

"Well, your son's an active member of the Guild, and we don't steal from the family of members," Brynjolf admitted easily. "Though I really do need to ask you to stop holding these awkward family reunions here. It's killing business."

"Contrary to popular opinion, trying to seduce Vex or Sapphire isn't business," she retorted with a grin.

"'Trying'? Lass, you wound me."

"Not as much as I will if you don't stop hitting on me!" observed another woman sharply from the shadows.

Isran just stared at them in confusion. They served Daedra. They were tainted, evil- "Your great-great-grandmother fought against the Daedric Princes and now you cavort with them, sell your son's soul-"

"Martin's soul isn't sold so much as 'temporarily on loan'," Brynjolf interrupted.

Irkand started laughing. "Did you ever pay attention to the stories about the Northstar?" he asked in between gasps, nearly doubled over.

"…No."

"She's the Madgoddess, the Daedric Prince of insanity, you twit!"

"I love that look on my descendants' faces when they find out," laughed a woman's deep voice from the mouth of a… fucking jester. Isran was beginning to think he was poisoned or something, because there was no way he could believe he was living this.

"Umm, Ancestress, with all due respect – Cicero belongs to Sithis," Irkand said, wiping his eyes.

"Timeshare agreement," the Daedric Prince countered sweetly. "He's having fun with Sheo."

"With all the Daedric Princes coming and going, we should just rename the Flagon 'The Oblivion Bar'," the bartender muttered.

"Nah, Sanguine runs that," the Madgoddess corrected.

"Ancestress, please don't tell me about Cicero's sex life," Irkand pleaded, all humour lost. "I really don't want to know."

"Days like this you realise Farkas is the only sane one here," Irileth told the Dragonborn dryly.

Lia was looking sadly at Isran. "I know you're here for some closure," she said softly. "Maybe even forgiveness."

Her words stung more than they should. She served Meridia openly, most of his living family served (or were) Daedric Princes-

"Why you? Why not Delphine?" She should be Grand Master; her devotion was enough, she was loyal, strong, ruthless-

"She tried to kill me too," Lia answered dryly. "Mostly because of disagreements we had over the direction of the Blades."

She pulled up her shirt to reveal a wicked scar in her gut. "Her dai-katana nearly sent me to Heaven's Reach Temple. I dragged myself up it to stab the bitch in the neck."

"She deserved better," Isran said flatly. "Good people have died because of you. Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

His words scored a hit, which gave him a surge of bitter triumph even as his newfound conscience protested at the cheap blow.

"No one knows shame better than Titus Mede's whore," she responded with deadly softness.

"I'd built up the Dawnguard and in one afternoon you destroyed everything I'd made," he accused.

She paused and then nodded slowly. "I did. I could have kept my mouth shut about Cloud Ruler. But I was hurting and wanted to make someone else suffer."

"Well, you've certainly achieved that. I hope you're proud of yourself. Everyone who worked for me thinks I'm a coward now."

"I'm not proud of my behaviour that day," Lia admitted. "I'd apologise, but I think my apology would be worth about as much to you as yours would to me."

Father and daughter stared at each other for several moments before Isran turned away. "The Dawnguard is mine and the Blades are yours," he said over his shoulder as he walked away. "Remember that."

"It will be a hard thing to forget," she said softly behind him.

At that moment he wasn't sure if he was proud of her or despised her to the core of her being. But at least she respected him enough not to fight with him. It would have to do.


End file.
